


Wednesday Evening

by rufeepeach



Series: Time Of Day [4]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Time of Day 'verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-04
Updated: 2012-06-04
Packaged: 2017-11-06 21:01:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/423149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufeepeach/pseuds/rufeepeach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Belle has a teacher/student fantasy, and Mr Gold is all too happy to indulge her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wednesday Evening

Belle tugs her skirt down a little way before she knocks on the door; it had seemed a little longer, a little more decent, when she’d bought it. Her shirt is a little tight as well, and for a moment she regrets her entire choice of wardrobe. But then, this is her school uniform, and so she didn’t have much of a choice in what she wore.   
  
She smirks as she knocks, and hears his voice – distracted, he probably has papers to read or something – call for her to enter.   
  
“Mr Gold?” she asks, as she cranes her head around the door and sees him. His desk is the only bright place in the dark room, it being after hours and late, and he is a dark-suited shadow behind it. He has a little stack of papers in front of him, and is frowning at one of them, holding his red pen like a knife.   
  
He glances up at her voice, and smiles that friendly, somehow wolfish smile when he recognises her. Her insides turn to liquid, “Miss French?”   
  
“You asked to see me?” she sounds a little more timid than she feels, but then he is intimidating and most people are more scared of him than she is. Scared is certainly not the word for how she feels about Mr Gold.   
  
“Ah, yes,” he beckons, “Come on in.”   
  
She closes the door behind her, and her heels clack on the hard floor as she crosses to his desk, and stands patiently with her hands clenched behind her back, waiting for him to say more.   
  
“Do you know why I called you here this evening, Miss French?” he asks, as he stands and comes around to meet her so he’s between her and the door, and smirks that smile that turns her knees to water.   
  
She shakes her head, mute, pressed back against the desk to avoid the intensity of his stare.   
  
“You’ve been distracted in my classes, lately,” he explains, stepping another inch forward, so they’re almost chest-to-chest and breathing the same air, “Haven’t you?”   
  
“No.” she lies, and she has to hop up on the desk as he moves closer, to avoid being trapped entirely between two hard places.   
  
He stands between her legs, spread wide and kicking absently beneath her, and she glances down. His suit pants – always rather tight, a favourite feature of hers of his wardrobe – are considerably tighter than she usually sees them. She smirks, and glances back up at his face, biting her lip around her smile.   
  
“And now you’re lying to me too, Miss French?” he tuts, shakes his head, “Such a rebellious little thing you are.”   
  
His hand comes almost of its own accord from his side up her leg, stroking over her knee cap and up her thigh, to the hemline of her skirt. He fiddles with the hem absently, and just waits, as her heart races and she breathes harder and harder, his proximity stimulation enough all on its own.   
  
“This hemline is scandalously short, love,” he breathes, “Not regulation at all.”   
  
“You disapprove?” she asks, her voice a quiet whimper at the sensation of his fingers under her skirt and tracing little patterns on her skin.   
  
“Oh,” he chuckles, a filthy little sound, “I never said that.”   
  
\---   
  
_ “Do you have any fantasies?” he asks, as she straightens her shirt and he finally takes the cowboy hat off.   
  
“You tick all the boxes all on your own.” She smiles, and he nods, acknowledging the compliment, leaning in for a soft kiss, “Thanks for asking.”   
  
“I’m serious,” his curiosity is piqued, she can see it, and she wonders how long she’ll manage to go before he gets every little secret out of her, “You were wonderful about this afternoon, I’d like to return the favour.”   
  
She snickers, “Swooning in a corset and putting a few feathers in my hair is hardly trouble, and it was fun to pretend to be all scandalised for a while.” Truth be told, she’d had a lot more fun with his Wild West fantasy than she’d expected, but that doesn’t mean it’s now share time.   
  
She turns away, plucks the last few feathers from her bun and feels him wrap his arms around her middle, a rare embrace that sends her reeling more than his kisses did.   
  
“Still,” he rumbles against her neck, as he buries his lips there, “There must be something, some dirty scenario you have tucked in that wicked little mind of yours.”   
  
She thinks for a moment, too enraptured by the image of them in the mirror, with his arms around her like a protector, like a husband or a boyfriend instead of a secret, indefinable lover. They look like they’re a happy couple, not just a pair of unlikely friends with some extraordinary benefits.   
  
“Well,” she says, as she hits upon something she has always wanted to try, “I had this history teacher in high school…”   
  
He chuckles into her skin, “Go on...” _   
  
\---   
  
“But the point still stands,” he stands back, and she is cold with the loss of his body heat, the warmth of his long fingers against her thigh, “Rules are rules, and you need to learn the value of obeying them.”   
  
She shivers, looks at him pleadingly, begging for him to spare her. But he just smiles, a dark smile, and puts a fraction more space between them, “Stand up, Miss French, quickly now.”   
  
She hurries to obey, landing on the floor with a little clack of her heels, and he nods approvingly. He trails his eyes up and down her body slowly, taking in the high-heeled Mary Janes, the knee socks and tiny tartan skirt, and the white shirt straining across her breasts. He smirks at the pigtails, tied in bunches with little pink bands. He licks his lips, and she nearly comes on the spot from the pure physicality of his eyes on her.   
  
“Now,” he says, and his voice has lowered in pitch, sending a little thrill through her at his accent, “Turn around, and put both of your hands flat on the desk.”   
  
She trembles, trying not to smile as she realises what is coming. She does as she’s told, and bends over slowly, arching her back, the heels forcing her legs to stay long and straight.   
  
He hums, a little noise of approval, and she can almost  feel him watching her, even as he lets her stand alone for a moment.   
  
She gasps at the cold air, when he flips her skirt up and lets it fall across her back. “Such a bad little girl,” he murmurs, “Not wearing underwear to a meeting with her teacher…” His hand, warm gentle, traces over the curve of her ass slowly, caressingly, before sweeping down and rubbing just once against her pussy. She moans, shaking from head to toe with the effort to stay still, and he chuckles.   
  
Then his hand is gone, and she hears it move through the air as it comes down and spanks her, hard. She chokes back a startled little cry, an oddly pleasurable warmth spreading across her backside at the sting.   
  
“You’re never listening in my classes,” he says, “Are you, Miss French?”   
  
“No,” she answers, and it comes out as a choked little cry. Another slap, a little harder this time, and she cannot contain her strained, high whimper.   
  
“And why not?” he asks, as his hand comes down twice more, and his other comes up to press on her lower back, holding her in place as if she might try to run, as if she might break loose at any moment.   
  
As if. She’s been having dreams about this for months, and this is every damn one of them coming true. She’d never imagined he’d be so good at committing to the role, though, and somewhere in her clouded mind she makes a note to thank him later. Then again, she’d always thought he’d turn out to be a kinky bastard, and wasn’t it fun when she indulged him?   
  
“Answer me, Miss French,” he singsongs, mockingly, “Or shall I have to punish you for reticence as well?”   
  
He sounds entirely delighted with the idea, and she wonders what marvellous little punishments he could come up with for her multitude of transgressions.   
  
One more strike of his hand, and she answers, “Because of you!”   
  
He pauses, makes a pleased little noise, “There, much better. And in what way are you distracted by me, Miss French?”   
  
“I want you… so much...” she breathes, as he rubs soothing circles over her backside, the touch making the stinging, warm flesh sing. She is trembling, trying not to arch into his hand, but the warmth radiating from her buttocks is almost too much to bear.   
  
“In what  _ way _ ?” he prompts, and she knows he’ll make her say it, his hand running farther down to dip just lightly into her entrance, teasing her as his other holds her still.   
  
“I want… oh, god,” she moans, legs trembling, as his thumb finds her clit and rubs once, lightly, “I want you to  fuck me .”   
  
“That’s right,” he praises, and rewards her with three fingers against her pussy, stroking her right where she’s aching, right where she needs him most, “Such a bad girl, getting all wet and wanting over her teacher, not focusing on her lessons.”   
  
Another slap, his hand suddenly withdrawn from her centre and spanking again across her backside, and she yelps in surprise, the air even cooler against the wet patch her juices on his fingers have left on her buttocks. “Should I teach you now, hmmm?” He leans down, and she can feel his breath on her ear, “Answer me, Miss French.”   
  
“Yes,” she pants, “Please, yes.”   
  
He chuckles, an unspeakably dark and filthy sound, and straightens, “Very well.” He rubs his hand across the warmth his spanks have caused, and then suddenly darts down, to slip one finger up deep inside her, “Lesson the first, a good girl should never soak her underwear in class to thoughts of her professor.”   
  
“Yes,” she moans, bucking back against his hand, trying to get him to move. He snickers, and twists his finger just slightly, searching for the spot she knows he’s close to that will send her flying.   
  
“Lesson the second,” he continues, and his voice is lower, strained more with every word, as affected by this as she is, “A good girl should  never tempt her teacher in class.” She can hear the smirk in his voice as he slips another finger inside, and pumps them slowly in and out; she moans and keens with every thrust of his fingers.   
  
“You drive me to  _ distraction _ , dearie, with all the things I want to do to you.” He pauses, and twists his fingers hard, his thumb finding her clit and stroking in maddening little circles, so she’s whimpering and writhing against him, “Do you want that, Miss French?”   
  
“Yes!” she cries, “Oh, please, please yes!”   
  
With a dark little chuckle, his hands leave her suddenly, and she is bereft. She can hear the jangling of his belt, and she looks around to see him unzipping his flies. He takes himself in hand, and strokes a few times as she watches, smirking all the while.   
  
He comes around so he is behind her, and she trembles as he grinds his hard cock against her centre, her hips bucking back against him hard, desperate to have him inside of her, to come and scream his name, “Lesson the third,” he says, “A good girl does not writhe and buck like a bitch in heat.”   
  
He smirks, leans over her, and braces his hands next to hers, his lips at her ear, “But you’re not a good girl at all, are you Miss French?”   
  
She trembles all over, her pussy wet and aching and desperate for him, and he flicks his fingers against her once more, smirks when her knees shake and she whimpers, “On your knees,” he whispers, voice harsh and strained, “Show me what bad little sluts like you do best.”   
  
She nods, and tries not to come there and then as he helps her to stand, and she sinks to the ground. She looks up into his dark eyes as she takes him in her mouth, and swirls her tongue around his tip as she pulls back, hollowing her cheeks.   
  
His hands come to cradle the sides of her head, fingers deftly undoing her pigtails as she repeats the motion. It’s his turn to make a strained little noise when she flattens her tongue and runs it along his underside, and he thrusts into her mouth, hands buried in her hair.   
  
She smiles at his desperation, proof of how he wants her as badly as she burns for him, and releases him with a wet little pop, smiling at him before he pushes her mouth back to his cock and she places an open-mouthed kiss to the head. He hisses, grips her scalp to the point of pain, and she giggles.   
  
He pushes her away, and hauls her back to her feet, “Lesson the fifth,” he manages, pushing her up to sit on the desk again and standing between her legs, “A good girl doesn’t smile and moan as she sucks off her teacher.”   
  
“You like me bad,” she counters, and he grins, lining himself up and finally thrusting inside her with a sneer.   
  
“Lesson the sixth,” he grinds out as he pulls almost fully out of her and slams back in, wrenching a scream from her throat, “Never speak unless spoken to.”   
  
“Rules were… made to… be broken…” she gasps, as he pounds into her, the pleasure racing through her and coiling in her stomach, every nerve ending on fire as she clings to him, desperate for release.   
  
“That’s my bad little girl,” he murmurs in her ear, snapping his hips hard so he hits that sweet spot, and she rolls her head back, screaming, “You love this, don’t you, love taking it hard and deep,” he fucks her faster, pulling her hips down as he thrusts up.   
  
“Yes, yes, you know I do, know I want this, please, please…” she babbles, anything he wants to hear, anything that will get him to give her all that she craves. His hand comes from her hip down between them, and flicks her clit in time with his thrusts, as ecstasy floods through her, as she sees stars and bucks forward to meet him, clings to him as she comes so close, so close…   
  
“Go on,” he urges, “Take it, take it all you naughty little slut, come for me, come around my cock and scream my name…”   
  
“Yes!” she cries, and she’s so close she can taste it, and with one more hard pinch of his fingers against her pussy she comes, his name on her lips, her inner walls clenching hard around him, head thrown back and voice high and keening. His continued motion inside of her keeps her trembling, draws out her pleasure to an almost painful degree until she is breathing hard and sweating, beaming at him and unable to stop.   
  
He growls low in his throat, and sucks hard on her exposed throat, his rhythm broken as his thrusts become jerky and erratic, as she smiles at him and their eyes meet.   
  
He comes inside her, hard, growling and clutching at her as he falls over the edge, and rides out his orgasm, with her whispered encouragements in his ears.   
  
Finally, he slumps against her and slips out, head buried against her neck, and for a moment she’s petting his hair, her legs still clasped limply around his middle.   
  
Then he’s chuckling into her newly-loosened hair, and he pulls back, tucks himself away and offers a hand to help her down.   
  
“Well,” he says, with a somewhat astounded smile, “That was intense.”   
  
“I’d say so.” She can’t stop grinning, “Thank you.”   
  
“It was my pleasure,” he replies, hands still in hers, “Are you alright?”   
  
“I asked for it, didn’t I?” she smirks, and then swats his arm hard, catching him by surprise.   
  
“What was that for?” he asks, all wounded puppy eyes.   
  
“That was for ‘slut’.” She replies, “I don’t know whether to take that personally.”   
  
“Heat of the moment, dear, nothing more.” He reassures her, and the worry in his eyes is enough to convince her. She nods, still smiling, mollified, and he continues, “Anyway, you like the dirty talk,” he cocks his head on one side, an all too knowing look in his eyes, “I know you do, so don’t act offended.”   
  
“Shut up,” she leans up and kisses him, tender and deep, hands cupping the sides of his face. It was the principal of the thing, however much she had enjoyed it at the time.   
  
Then she pulls back, and grabs her coat from the hat stand, and looks around the shop that had doubled as an office, “I’ll see you Saturday?”   
  
“And not a day earlier,” he nods, smiling, “I know the rules.”   
  
She nods back, and tries not to let the silly, wistful pain show on her face as she wraps the coat over her dishevelled school uniform, and walks out into the street.


End file.
